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I am John Mastodon, and I am here to ask you a question: Is a man not entitled to his social media feed?
No, says the man in Cupertino. It belongs in our walled garden.
No, says the man in Fort Meade. It belongs to PRISM.
No, says the man at Twitter. It costs you $8.
I rejected those answers. Instead, I chose something different. I chose the impossible. I chose... Mastodon.
A pile of Ruby garbage where the journalist would not fear the chud, as long as he followed the six million requirements to not get Fediblocked. Where the artist would be free to create, as long as they meet the mandatory Diversity Quota.
And with the sweat of your brow, Mastodon can become your social feed as well.